While the chaos of Mordecai's hysteria roared around them like a storm, the other commanders of the Underlayer experienced the victory through their own fractured lenses of trauma, relief, and hard-won respect.
Pavellia remained an island of unnatural stillness amidst the sea of demonic revelry. Her posture was perfect, her spine a straight line of absolute discipline that refused to bend even to the gravity of the moment.
To any observer, she was merely observing, the consummate professional assessing the aftermath. But beneath the surface, something was fraying.
Her quill trembled just once, a microscopic shudder that betrayed the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.
Scritch. Scritch.
The sound of her pen against parchment was faint, but in her own mind, it sounded like bone grinding against stone. Her report was a clinical dissection of slaughter: casualty numbers, magical expenditure, and resource depletion.
